


This is our future, from what we've heard.

by error_era (orphan_account)



Series: 3AM Products of Procrastination [1]
Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Character Death, Gen, M/M, POV First Person, hinted pairings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-13
Updated: 2012-06-13
Packaged: 2017-11-18 12:38:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/561146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/error_era
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The mission failed, but Prometheus has made it back to earth. David passes along the last message recorded by Charles Xavier regarding their findings (and what found them in return).</p>
            </blockquote>





	This is our future, from what we've heard.

In a room of white, you sit alone. A microphone is set up on the table you've been seated at. You stare blankly at a wall (a mirror, your systems dully register, but that's what the humans want you to think), and wait for your cue.

It's been a week since you've returned to Earth, alone, with a barely operational ship and a little worse for wear, yourself. There have been several examinations conducted by (and with) the Industry, checking to see if there were any clues or footage they could glean from the wrecked ship, or from the android. You.

Your name is David, a product of Weyland Industries and one of the newest, most advanced creations mankind has seen yet. An android capable of understanding emotions, expressing them, even, yet unable to actually feel them it(him)self. But that is to be outdated soon, of course; technology moves dastardly fast these days. 

A sound check. They call for you, testing, one, two, three, testing. Silence.

Prometheus had set off with thirty-odd passengers, ignorantly eager of what lay before them in the planets beyond. Led by old scrawls, no less, but you have no right to sneer at the plausibility of their findings. 

Right.

Charles Xavier gave you the right, your memory provides. While the crew jeered about the archeologists’ presumed wild goose chase, they also goaded you on about how you couldn’t have an opinion on the matter, you shouldn’t, because you’re a robot, ha!

Charles Xavier thought otherwise. He was so fascinated, so constantly delighted by the things you could do, what you could learn. It used to amuse you how easy it was to show off to him, from cycling to dunking basketballs to just  _eating_. He’d write notes in his little book (dark blue, with a scale pattern, looks worn and used, but taken care of), and the one time you’ve managed to see the contents, you notice that the notes all started with  _Dear Erik and Raven_. Letters, then. Interesting.

But you realize quickly that you’re not doing this because it amuses you. You’re doing this because you like seeing the little Englishman happy.

Which was why his death triggered a switch in you, an emotion you didn’t have to use since your first test run, before you even had the colour of your eyes customisable, before your synthetic skin was even set in.

Sadness.

“David, you’re online in 30 seconds.” Your drives acknowlege the information, processes it, and quickly makes a personal countdown to make your reactions as smooth as possible. What you’re trying to achieve here, now, is to convey the last message that Charles Francis Xavier had left with you, to the hundreds, thousands of people listening to the other side of the recording. What had they found? Where did they go? What did they learn?

If you had the capacity to like and dislike things, you are certain that you would have liked to have the (rather brilliant) man present this himself. To be standing by his side while he sat in your place, perhaps his body wrapped with bandages and—or maybe he would be in a wheelchair, maybe he would have been paralysed. So many possibilities. All ending with one.

 

Five.

 

Funny, how it turned out. Most of the crew had perished by the hands of the creatures they had found (or rather, found  _them_ ), turned bloody and unsightly.

 

Four.

 

Charles Xavier, although being a genetics professor, had a weak stomach for this. Even when you had ushered him out of the room, he still could not bear to remove the hands covering his eyes. Perhaps it was because you were in charge of desposing the bodies. Yes, that must be it.

 

Three.

 

It’s not like the man had no survival skills; he did. Enough to end up in the surviving crew of five, struggling to find a way back to Earth in one piece. He was the one who gathered the supplies that mattered; knew which medication had more priority than others. It was too bad that the items didn’t help them in the end.

 

Two.

 

A large crack to his air helmet was what got him. Your system seized up for a moment, seeing his breaths get weaker and weaker, and immediately processed his survival to be the first priority. You were built to be void of biases, and yet.

 

One.

 

A private video clip plays; he’s smiling at you. The lines under his eyes are getting darker, his skin getting paler. He tells you about his family, his sister, about this special man he met at home that he thinks you will find interesting, perhaps you should meet him. He pants, rasps,  _He said something to me that I want you to pass along_.  _To our people._  Your lips stretch into a smile. How fitting.

 

“Do not fret. You are not alone.”


End file.
